


Things That Go Bump In The Night

by parisian_girl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parisian_girl/pseuds/parisian_girl
Summary: Phryne. Jack. A graveyard on Halloween.There really are no such things as ghosts.....





	Things That Go Bump In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was the result of a week spent in bed with flu, and a list of spooky prompts that was doing the rounds on Tumblr (the original post is somewhere on my Tumblr, I just can't find it!). @riley1cannon requested “Graveyard”…so here we go. I’m not sure if they’re on AO3, otherwise this would be gifted :).

“You’re _what?”_

Phryne clutched the telephone receiver closer to her ear, her horrified exclamation making Dot visibly jump. Her companion had just emerged from the parlour carrying her sewing, but her questioning face was lost on Phryne who just shook her head. Surely she hadn’t heard her aunt correctly.

_“A gathering, Phryne, of the Spiritualist Society. On All Hallow’s Eve. It is one of the most important dates in the Spiritualist calendar, you know, and….”_

“Yes, I realise that, Aunt P, but….”

“ _…I did agree that I would do a supper afterwards. I thought perhaps a pumpkin….”_

“But, Aunt P….”

“…. _and I wondered whether your Mr Butler would be so kind as to give me his recipe for cheese soufflé. I hope it’s not raining, but I suppose the weather can’t be helped. I do need your help though, Phryne dear, as….”_

“In a _graveyard?”_

Dot’s eyes widened.

_“Of course, Phryne. It’s traditional.”_

“What, for a group of adults - who, quite frankly, are all old enough to know better - to dress up and walk around a graveyard lighting candles on Halloween?”

Normally Phryne would never have been so bluntly dismissive when it came to someone’s beliefs, but this really was too much, and Dot, still standing at the foot of the staircase clutching her sewing, now looked positively horrified.

“ _Phryne! I expected better of you.”_

 _"_ I could say the same thing, Aunt P!” Phryne could almost see her aunt puffing up with indignation on the other end of the telephone, and closed her eyes in despair. “The _Spiritualist_ Society?”

“ _When one gets to a certain age, Phryne dear, one must hedge one’s bets. And besides, they are a very respectable organisation. Sir Edwin Hunt, no less, is the Chair.”_

Phryne’s eyes shot open.

“ _They have held this gathering every year at the cemetery since nineteen-oh-four”._ Each number was punctuated, Phryne could tell, with a jab of her aunt’s finger into thin air, as if poking them violently into the ether would somehow make them more impressive. “ _And they especially asked me to provide the supper afterwards on account of….”_

 _“_ Sir Edwin Hunt?” Phryne’s mind was racing. She knew that name. Highly respected member of the aristocracy - of course. Owner of several thoroughbred racehorses and a couple of profitable vineyards, and - if she remembered rightly - one of the police’s prime suspects in a race-fixing and doping scam that was threatening to derail the Melbourne Cup.

“ _No, dear, not on account of Sir Edwin, although he did ask me personally.”_ Prudence sounded bemused, but also rather proud of herself. “ _My flummery, it seems, has a reputation all of its own. But I did also say that you would be there.”_

 _“_ But why?” It came out as more of a wail than Phryne had intended, but she really didn’t care. “Its really not my thing, Aunt P.”

“ _Nonsense, Phryne. Sir Edwin especially asked if you were going to be attending.”_

Phryne could almost see her aunt’s matchmaking cogs whirring into action, and she groaned out loud - a noise which, fortunately, was completely lost on her Aunt Prudence. 

_“So I shall see you at seven, prompt. At the cemetery gates. Please don’t be late.”_

Phryne slowly replaced the telephone in its cradle and shook her head.

“Is everything alright, Miss?”

“No, Dot.” Phryne heaved a sigh. “Somehow I am now spending tomorrow evening traipsing around a graveyard lighting candles and doing heaven knows what else with the _Spiritualist_ Society. And Aunt P.”

“Oh.” Dot looked a little as if Phryne had just told her she was going to a leper colony.

“Not to mention the prime suspect in that case of Jack’s.” It still rankled that he hadn’t let her in on that one, hadn’t asked for her help. Everything she knew she had heard third hand from Dot, via Hugh. She knew that it was sometimes difficult for him to include a civilian, but still. She had means and methods that he did not, means and methods that usually proved remarkably effective. Surely he knew that by now? And besides, she also had….

"Oh?" Dot’s face cleared a little, and as her thoughts began to click into place, Phryne slowly returned her smile.

She also had the contacts.

“Although on second thoughts, an evening with Sir Edwin might not be such a bad idea.” She stood up and practically skipped past Dot up the first few stairs. “I’ll need something suitable to wear, Dot. I have no idea what that would be, but I’m sure…”

“We’ll think of something, Miss.”

 

******

 

Halfway around the graveyard, candle in hand, and Phryne was beginning to wish that “something suitable” had erred more on the side of comfort and warmth and less on the side of witchy and sexy. Dot had warned her, she thought grumpily as she felt a fresh round of goosepimples prickle her arms through the thin gossamer web of her black cardigan. It was a clear night, the moon dancing with the shadows cast by the gravestones and the small clouds that drifted lazily across the sky, and there was a definite chill in the air. Next time - God forbid there would even be a next time - she would listen to her companion. At least she had managed to incorporate her favourite “break and enter” hat. Her ears were the one part of her that was warm enough.

“ _We honour the souls of our dear departed…..”_

Phryne surreptitiously checked her watch. Eight o’clock, and she had not yet managed to even speak to Sir Edwin. She had lit sixteen candles, traipsed for what felt like miles up and down the looming aisles of headstones and tombs, listened to the dronings of at least three different speakers, and sneaked four of the pumpkin-flavour boiled sweets that Dot had slipped into her handbag (“ _just in case, Miss”)._ But the group was sticking tightly together, which was something that she hadn’t anticipated, and she hadn’t yet come close to her suspect.

She smiled suddenly to herself as an image of Jack and his raised eyebrow popped into her mind. _I think you’ll find that’s_ my _suspect, Miss Fisher. Now, if you’ll excuse me…._

 _“_ I have an urgent appointment with some ghosts and a witches’ coven.” Phryne murmured the end of Jack’s imagined sentence to herself, trying not to laugh, and was rewarded with a hissed “ _Shhh!”_ from one of the faithful standing nearby.

“Sorry,” she muttered, hiding her smirk in the fifth boiled sweet.Honestly, this really was getting too much. Either she would get the giggles or die of hypothermia, and, given the sharp look on her aunt’s face just a few metres away, the second option seemed the best. She only hoped the supper afterwards would be more profitable, although anything that involved Mr Butler’s cheese soufflé was never a complete loss. True to form, he had politely refused to give her aunt the recipe, and had settled himself in her kitchen for the afternoon to make them himself. She could almost taste them already.

The little speech finally ended, and the group began to move on. Phryne, though, held back. She didn’t think anyone would notice if she lagged a little bit behind, and it would give her a better chance to observe, to see the dynamics of the group, and to perhaps watch Sir Edwin. She knew which one he was out of the small sea of black cloaks and top hats that were worn by all the men - at least, she thought she did - and watching would be better than listening. So she pretended to examine the grave that had just been adorned with candles, and waited for the group to move off along the walkway. 

There were about twenty or so of them, mostly women. They had all lost loved ones in the war; sons, brothers, lovers, husbands. There was a part of Phryne that could understand their need for rituals such as tonight, and for the other “comforts” the Spiritualist Society brought them in seances, spiritual circles, tarot card readings. But the cynical part of her - and, if she was honest, the protective side of her - this was, after all, her Aunt P - also wondered why none of them questioned the exorbitant membership fees, or the regular expenses for visiting “scholars”, or the general lack of any genuine communication from the “other side” whatsoever.

She wondered why Sir Edwin had even shown an interest, never mind enough of one to be made Chair. Perhaps it was just another one of his money-making schemes…as if he didn’t have enough already. 

She was about to move on, over into the next pathway where she could watch and listen from a distance - and hope that her aunt didn’t notice she wasn’t with the group - when she heard something. A scuffling noise, too heavy for a rat or a rabbit, that set all of her senses on edge, coming from behind the tomb to her right.

Quickly, she looked over to where the group was gathered. A quick count confirmed that no one apart from herself was missing, and she held herself still, even her breath barely audible. The graves were like monoliths looming out of the darkness, casting their long shadows into the moonlight. Shadows deep enough for a person to hide in.

Or a ghost.

She shook her head, silently chiding herself for even thinking of it. There was no such thing and even if there was, she told herself firmly, it was more likely to be scared of her than she was of it.

She had her gun in her handbag. The click of the safety catch, though, would be like a gunshot itself in the still air, and she cursed herself for not slipping her knife into her garter as well. Casting her eyes over the well-kept grass, she saw nothing that could be used as a weapon. There wasn’t even a stone out of place.

The scuffling noise came again.

She could distinguish it better this time. A footstep on the grass, a brush of an arm, perhaps, against the stone wall of the tomb. She heard the speaker begin - a new voice, this time, quiet and solemn, the words blending into sound as his candle was held aloft in a prayer, or incantation - and she grabbed the only thing she could see. A candle, solid and heavy, from the last grave, droplets of wax only just starting to run down the sides like rain down a window. Gently, she blew it out, and snuffed the smoke from the wick with her fingers. She intended to use it as a weapon, not for light, but she didn’t want to set anyone on fire either. It was hefty enough to do some damage by itself if she aimed it right.

With a deep breath, she took a determined step forward. Another, and another, as she focused on tuning out the speaker and listening instead for whatever was hiding behind the tomb. _There are no such things as ghosts._ But she could hear nothing. Another step brought her to the corner of the tomb, her back pressed against the cold stone. One more, and she could swing round the corner and….

“For God’s sake, put that thing down!”

He had caught her as she swung round, one arm around her waist, his other hand firmly over hers to stop her bringing the candle down over his head. The hissed whisper was familiar, and now that she was closer - very close, actually, and suddenly it wasn’t unwelcome - she could pick up the scent of pomade, and wood spice, and…

“Jack?”

Slowly, he released her hand. His skin brushed over hers as they both lowered the candle, but his arm stayed around her waist, holding her close. Perhaps, she thought, he was just making sure she definitely wasn’t going to clonk him over the head for surprising her like that. 

“Good evening, Miss Fisher…ow!”

She had poked him hard in the chest with her free hand instead.

“Just making sure you’re not a ghost.”

“A... _what_?”

“It’s Halloween, Jack, you can’t be too careful. What are you doing here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

His breath was warm on her ear, his arm still around her waist, and she shivered a little. Not, though, from the cold.

“I never put you down for a grave robber, Jack.”

“Very funny.” He peered around the corner of the tomb, checking that they hadn’t been seen, before ducking back round and pulling her further along the wall, where they were swallowed by the shadows and his whispers wouldn’t be heard. “Edwin Hunt. We believe he’s using the Spiritualist Society as a way of laundering the money he gets from race-fixing and doping. We also think there’s another member of the Society who’s in on it with him.”

“So you were following them round a graveyard, hoping to….what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Hear something. Watch them together. I can’t interview them formally, not without a lot of hard evidence, they’re too well connected. And this is one of the only gatherings they have that isn’t in a private home. I didn’t fancy being caught lurking in the bushes outside someone’s front window.”

“Lurking behind someone’s tomb is better?”

“Marginally. I’m paying my respects to the dead.”

Phryne smothered her laughter. Jack, she thought, was finally learning one or two of her tricks.

“You could have just asked, you know.”

She peered coquettishly up at him through the darkness, and was satisfied to see a discomfited look flash briefly across his face.

“Apparently so. I had no idea you were into all this.”

“Oh, please.” Phryne rolled her eyes into the darkness. “I’m not, of course. It’s Aunt P. She asked me to come. And when I heard that Edwin Hunt was the Chair of the Society, and that he had asked if I was going to be here, well….”

“You thought you would gatecrash my investigation.”

“Jack!” Phryne’s whisper was as indignant as she could make it. “I had no idea tonight was part of your investigation. I will admit that I thought maybe I could talk to Sir Edwin and gather some information for you, purely for altruistic purposes, of course, but….”

“Shhh.”

Phryne fell silent, her mouth and eyes forming little “o’s” of surprise as Jack’s finger lightly touched her lips. His skin was cool, slightly rough, and his eyes held hers. As the moonlight crept along the walls of the tomb, she wondered if what she could see in those eyes was really a flash of desire, or whether the night was playing tricks on her, or whether….

“ _I cannot do another one. Not yet.”_

He had heard what she had not - the sound of quiet footsteps, of a lighter flaring and a cigarette being lit, the melodramatic swish of a black cloak on the other side of the tomb. With a sinking feeling of disappointment that she tried not to acknowledge, she gave a slight nod to indicate that she had understood, she had heard it, and she would keep quiet. But his finger stayed where it was.

“ _It’s not an option, Henry.”_

Edwin Hunt. Finally.

“ _We agreed. The Cup will be the last one, but it’s also going to be the big one. You can’t pull out now.”_

_“I can and I will. It’s too risky. The cops are onto us and the trainers are watching the horses like hawks. There’s too much at stake.”_

A slight breeze toyed with the hem of Phryne’s black dress, the chill piercing the thin fabric. She didn’t really notice the shiver that followed, so intent was she on listening to the whispered conversation of the two men, until she felt Jack pull her a little closer, his arm tighter around her waist, felt his hand run up and down her arm to warm her.

She could sense his question without him having to articulate it.

“ _Cold, Miss Fisher?”_

_“A graveyard on Halloween demands a certain witchy presence, Jack, and as far as I am aware witches do not wear woollen coats.”_

A fact that, if she was honest, she was no longer regretting.

One of the men lit another cigarette, the warm orange light flaring briefly in the darkness, and Phryne dragged her attention back to what they were saying. But dammit, Jack was making it very difficult to concentrate.

“ _It’s all set up. If we pull out now it’ll raise more suspicion.”_

_“Can’t you just run one normal race?”_

_“I’ve come in the top three in every race this season.”_

There was a hint of menace in the whisper now, and Phryne could hear Edwin’s determination. His anger. Was he determined enough and angry enough, she wondered, to kill for the sake of winning?

“ _It’ll look pretty obvious if I suddenly end up at the back of the field.”_

_“Come on, Edwin, the horses aren’t….”_

_“I’ve never actually injected a horse, Henry.”_ There was a pause, the air heavy with the implication of his words, the gathered voices of the Society drifting faintly towards them on the night air. “ _You have. And I can prove it - you’ve taken your cut from it. So I suggest….”_

_“You bloody bast….”_

But whatever further insults Henry had intended for Edwin were lost in the blur that followed. Jack stepped out from behind the tomb, gun raised, having heard enough. Phryne registered the cool vacuum left from his hands and his body, the raised voices, and sound of running feet, and then she too was on the move, chasing the billowing cloak, gun in hand, no worries this time about the safety catch being a giveaway. In the hubbub of voices, she thought she heard her Aunt Prudence - berating her, no doubt, for subjecting the esteemed Chair of the Spiritualist Society to an undignified game of cat and mouse around a graveyard, but voices quickly turned to screams as first one shot was fired, and then two.

She heard the crack as the first one hit the stone of a grave and she winced, hoping the occupant wouldn’t decide to complain. The second one shattered a candle, sending flames leaping into the dew dampened grass. She saw Jack appear to her right, gun raised. She saw Edwin running towards the swiftly scattering group of spiritualists, perhaps hoping for safety or cover or just to confuse them. She saw a figure step towards him, and she opened her mouth to shout at whoever it was to get out of the way, to give her a clear shot, but the figure raised its arms and suddenly Edwin crumpled, his legs giving way mid-stride.

Phryne slowed as she came closer, her eyes widening as she saw her aunt, candle clutched in both hands, her face set in a picture of determined indignation as she surveyed the man now groaning at her feet.

“Aunt P?”

“Mrs Stanley?”

Jack drew up alongside her, his breath coming in short gasps as he took in the scene in front of him.

“Inspector! About time. I believe this…” Aunt Prudence prodded Edwin with the toe of her neatly buckled shoe, “belongs to you?”

“Did she just whack him over the head with a candle?”

Phryne gazed at her aunt, a smile beginning to spread over her face.

“Yes, I believe she did.”

“Runs in the family, then.”

Jack stepped forward, wrestling Edwin to his feet and marching him off towards the gate of the cemetery, and Phryne moved to stand beside her aunt. Gently, she took the candle from her grasp and set it back down on the grave where it belonged. The other members of the group were beginning to settle down, the screams descending into frantic murmurs and the panic subsiding into a ghoulish excitement. It might not have been the communion with the dead they had been hoping for, but it certainly hadn’t been the quiet ritual they had been expecting either.

“I had just been going to light that one for Arthur, but perhaps that was a better use for it.”

“I’m sure Arthur would understand.” Phryne slipped an arm around her aunt.

“He had a gun, Phryne.”

“I know, Aunt P.” She squeezed. “You were lucky he didn’t use it.”

“Hmmph.” Aunt Prudence puffed a little. “The element of surprise. And such disgraceful behaviour, at a Spiritualist gathering no less. I hope he has a lump in the morning.”

Phryne chuckled. “I’m sure he will.”

“But what about the supper?”

Phryne looked around at the assembled group, and shrugged. She doubted any of them would go quietly home. There was too much to gossip about, too much to speculate over and dissect. And it would be a crying shame to let those cheese soufflés go to waste. 

“Well. I think we could all use a drink, don’t you?”

 

*******

 

It was late by the time Jack came. She had been watching for him out of her parlour window, the soft glow from Jane’s Halloween jack-o-lantern making her reflection in the glass seem shadowy and insubstantial. She had brought her aunt back to Wardlow with her after supper. The magnitude of what Sir Edwin had done had rippled slowly around the group, leaving shocked faces and stunned silence in its wake. The gathering had not lasted long, and Phryne knew that her aunt felt the betrayal personally. It had been Sir Edwin, after all, who had recommended the society to her aunt after Arthur’s death. A comfort in dark times, he had said.

Phryne wondered who else he had said that to, and where, exactly, her aunt’s subscription monies had gone. But that would be a matter for another day.

She saw the car pull up outside, and the tall figure make its way up the path. There was a hesitation in the stride, though, and she knew what Jack would be thinking. It was well past midnight and the rest of the household was in bed. But the soft knock on the door finally came, perhaps encouraged by the ghoulish grin of the pumpkin on the windowsill, and she slipped quickly into the hallway.

“Is it too late?”

She searched his face, his shadowy outline framed in the doorway as he removed his hat. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she was searching for something that had been so fleeting she wondered if she had imagined it - that spark of desire she had seen cross his face, when their bodies had been pressed together behind the tomb and she had wanted so badly to kiss him. She was searching for a sign that he had felt it too.

He reached out a hand and touched her face. It was so gentle she thought she had maybe imagined that as well, but as his fingers slipped from her cheek, she shook her head and stood to one side.

“Never.”

She was still wearing her dress and cardigan from earlier. The thin material looked even more flimsy now, the silver threads that darted through the black gossamer of the cardigan shimmering in the low light of the hallway, and she felt a small twinge of satisfaction as she saw him swallow, his hat twirling nervously round and round in his hand.

“You could have caught cold in that, Miss Fisher.”

“Probably.” She stepped closer to him, gently prising his hat from his hand and setting it on the hall table. Her earrings glinted in the mirror and she saw him raise one quirky eyebrow, his hand coming up once more to take one between his fingers.

“Spider webs?”

“It is Halloween, Jack.” She rested one hand on his chest, the wool of his suit comforting and exciting at the same time, and felt his other arm slip around her waist in response. “And there aren’t any spiders in them. I had Dot check.”

“Sensible…”

“Inspector!”

Phryne barely suppressed a groan of frustration, and Jack quickly took a step backwards. It was, she thought furiously, worse than having a toddler in the house. Her aunt was supposed to have been asleep. 

“It’s very late.”

Prudence wrapped her housecoat more firmly around her as she descended the stairs, her eyebrows raised to turn the statement into a question, and Phryne risked a glance at Jack. His resigned smile told her all she needed to know.

“Yes,” he nodded. “It is late, Mrs Stanley.”

“Well past the hour that most people are in bed.”

“It is,” Jack solemnly agreed, and Phryne thought she might burst, either with tears or laughter. She wasn’t sure yet which one. “I actually wanted to pass on my thanks, though, Mrs Stanley - for your quick thinking earlier. Without you, he could have got clean away.”

Aunt Prudence visibly grew with pride. “Well, I….

“But now I really must be going.” Jack picked up his hat from the hall table, and Phryne swallowed as he turned to her. His smile was suddenly soft, his eyes tender, and and she felt a delicious shiver run up her spine at the thought of picking things up where it seemed they were leaving off. “I am glad we got that…ah…detail cleared up though, Miss Fisher.”

“About the spiders?” She saw Aunt Prudence blanch out of the corner of her eye. “So am I, Inspector, so am I.”

“And the rest.”

“Of course.”

“I look forward to our next investigation, then.”

“Me too.” Phryne nodded.

“I mean….not the crime, obviously, but the investigating part.”

“Of course…assuming that you let me know about it next time.”

He did at least have the grace to blush, and she smirked.

“Yes.” He placed his hat on his head. “Well, goodnight, Miss Fisher. Mrs Stanley.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

When he had left and her aunt was safely dispatched back to bed, she curled up in her favourite chair with a large glass of whisky and a fresh candle in the jack-o-lantern. There was no point in going to bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep. Her mind was replaying every moment, every touch, every sensation that she could remember, and for once, knowing now with certainty that it was not one-sided, she wanted to indulge in it. His face, with those chiselled cheekbones. His hair, always fighting against the strict control of his pomade…she bit her lip at the thought of running her hands through it, making it and him come completely undone. His eyes, so full of expression even when the rest of his face was poker-straight. His suit, a little worn but still smart, softened around the edges until it was almost a part of him. His hat - the one that she had bought him. His tie….

Her eyes widened.

His tie. 

She hadn’t noticed it earlier. How could she not have noticed it earlier? She felt laughter bubble up inside her, escaping her lips in a slightly hysterical smile that she couldn’t hold back, and with it came a warmth and tenderness that she knew she had been holding back for far longer than just tonight. 

He really was full of surprises. It was part of the reason she loved him, and the clarity of that thought made her snort into her whisky. But she would deal with that another night, along with all the ghosts that came with it. For now, though, she wanted to enjoy a quiet, intimate moment with a different kind of memory. 

Because Jack’s tie - his normally understated, respectable, and eminently staid tie -had been embroidered with grinning orange pumpkins.

 

 

 


End file.
